


in sweet and stuttered breaths

by humanveil



Series: luxurious women [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Crossover, Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, F/F, Italy, Minor Lucius/Narcissa, POV Narcissa Black Malfoy, Post-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Once is nothing to lose sleep over, twice is coincidental, but three times? Three times showsintent.





	in sweet and stuttered breaths

**Author's Note:**

> I have never been one for crossovers, but I do have a thing for morally ambiguous blonde woman (these two in particular), so when my mind went “hey, what about Bedelia/Narcissa” I just had to.
> 
> Bedelia is referred to as Lydia for almost all of this (and it annoys me but it’s her alias, so). Series notes explain the setting. 
> 
> Anyway. I hope someone out there is interested in this, because it was so much fun to write.

**_00._ **

A bell chimes as Narcissa enters _Vera Dal 1926_ , the glass door closing softly behind her. She steps toward the counter, the dull click of a heel further announcing her arrival.

A woman stands before the cashier already, a woman who looks not unlike herself, with her flowing blonde hair and pale complexion. Narcissa hears the end of her order as she waits, the request for white truffles said in a soft tone. From the accent, Narcissa guesses that she, too, is not a local.

The cashier disappears for a moment, leaving the two of them alone. Narcissa trails her gaze over the expensive clothes, notes the way the woman holds herself. High-class, she guesses. Posh.

_Beautiful._

Her gaze lingers, a faint smile gracing her features as the woman turns, as she looks right at Narcissa. She has blue eyes, Narcissa notes. The oceanic colour shining with curiosity—perhaps even distrust.

The woman does not look away until the cashier returns, two bottles of Bâtard-Montrachet in hand. He packs them for her, places both them and the truffles in a large bag.

As the woman turns to leave, Narcissa dips her head in a silent goodbye.

 

 

**_01._ **

_Vera Dal,_ again, only this time it is Narcissa who arrives first.

She stands before the showcase, one hand curled around the counter as she waits for her purchase to be handed over. Next to her is a display of grapes; the fresh fruit held in a basket and surrounded by a bush of green leaf, the foliage splattered with vibrant flowers. Above hangs an animal, its limp body slaughtered, ready for taking, and much less beautiful.

The door’s bell chimes, and Narcissa looks up, turns toward the entrance to see the new customer. To come face to face with the woman from last time is something of a surprise, though it is hardly an unwelcome one.

She looks much like she had last time, the coat adorning her shoulders made of the same expensive materials Narcissa is used to. She smiles, dips her head in silent acknowledgement, and to her pleasure, the woman does the same.

Neither speak, not even as the moment of eye contact stretches to something typically awkward.

“Signora Malfoy,” interrupts a voice, and Narcissa turns back to the counter to find her items ready for taking. She reaches a hand out, fingers winding around the bag’s handle.

“Grazie, Francesco.”

She turns to leave, her shoulder brushing the other woman’s ever so slightly as she goes. Pulling the door open, she manages to catch the woman’s order before stepping out to the bustling street. 

_“Due bottiglie di Bâtard-Montrachet e li tartufi bianchi, per favore.”_

 

 

**_02._ **

The third time, they meet at the door.

Narcissa’s hand curls around the handle just as she feels a presence behind her, too close for it to be comfortable. She turns, eyebrow arching when she sees the now-familiar woman. She stands just behind Narcissa, dressed all in shades of blue, and looks at her expectantly.

Narcissa pushes the door open, hand motioning for the woman to enter first. She does, and Narcissa trails behind her, watching unashamedly as she steps toward Francesco and orders the same as last they met.

As Francesco turns to retrieve the two bottles of Bâtard-Montrachet, Narcissa steps up to the counter, stands to the left of the woman. “What’s your name?” she asks.

The woman glances at her briefly, and Narcissa can see her think, can see the slight twitch of her mouth—as if she has to think about her answer. “Lydia Fell,” she says, and it’s a lie, Narcissa thinks. She took too long to say it. “And you?”

Narcissa doesn’t mention the falsity of the name, not yet. It doesn’t seem like the time. “Narcissa Malfoy,” she tells her, and Francesco returns just as she says it. He bags the order, the both of them watching as delicate bottles are placed amongst protective paper. “Is it always the same?”

“My husband’s request,” Lydia answers. “He’s… rather particular about how I taste.”

Both of Narcissa’s eyebrows raise at the words, a smirk blossoming on her face. “I imagine he has a refined palette,” she says, eyeing Lydia as she takes her bag from Francesco.

“Some could say.”

Narcissa hums quietly. “Do you recommend it?” she asks, tilting her head toward the Bâtard-Montrachet. “My husband and I could use a change.”

Lydia looks to her bag, as if contemplating. “It gets the job done,” she says, and then she’s gone, her blue coat disappearing through the door of _Vera Dal._

Narcissa turns back to Francesco once she’s out of sight, and when she speaks, her order mirrors that of Lydia.

 

 

**_03._ **

When they meet next, it can no longer be labelled under coincidence. Two weeks since they’d first seen each other, and yet they’d run in three more times since.

That, to Narcissa, is intent; is _purpose._

Lydia is not surprised to see her as she exits _Vera Dal_ —in fact, she looks to be expecting it. Narcissa eyes her curiously as Lydia nods in greeting; wonders if the other woman had waited for her, if she’d followed her.

“May I interest you in a walk?”

It’s hardly what Narcissa had expected her to say, but the proposition is interesting. As she answers, Narcissa reminds herself that her wand is tucked away inside her coat, easily accessible shall she need it.

“Lead the way,” she murmurs, following Lydia through the streets of Florence.

Hours later sees her returning home, the taste of expresso still lingering on her tongue. Lucius is at the window of their suite, eyes trained on the street below, on those who walk through it.

“A new plaything?” he asks, mildly amused.

Narcissa lifts her shoulder in a half shrug, the act somehow still elegant. “Perhaps.”

 

 

**_04._ **

“What brought you here?”

The words break a prolonged silence, and Narcissa looks to Lydia from the corner of her eye, contemplating. It’s their third time out together, the third day in a row where they’ve spent the early afternoon out amongst the beauty of Florence. Up until now, there has been no personal questions, only superficial words and lengthy looks.

Lydia, as Narcissa has come to learn, is a rather reserved person. For her to initiate intimate conversation is somewhat surprising.

“My husband has an appreciation for Italian cuisine,” Narcissa says eventually, turning back to look at the body of water in front of them. The sun shimmers reflectively in each of the water’s ripples, the Ponte Vecchio a beautiful backdrop.

Her words are the simplest of answers, and not technically a lie. Explaining her past to a stranger—a muggle stranger, no less—is hardly an appealing thought, and Narcissa has no desire to do so. Half-lies and fabricated truths will have to suffice.

“A penchant for Mediterranean diet,” Lydia repeats. “Is that reason enough to move?”

“Anything can be enough when there’s no reason to stay,” Narcissa says softly, her voice almost lost in the wind.  She offers no further information on the matter.

Beside her, Lydia doesn’t respond. Her gaze returns to the outline of the Ponte Vecchio, their conversation fading to silence once more.

****

****

**_05._ **

“That woman,” comes Lucius’ voice as she steps inside, and Narcissa turns to find him at the window once again. He looks down toward the street, no doubt watching Lydia walk away. “Again?”

Narcissa hums softly and walks to join him, her hand curling around his arm. The window is open, the wind chill as it ghosts over her face; gentle and refreshing. “Do you approve?” she asks, watching as Lydia’s frame disappears into the street below.

“I suppose,” Lucius murmurs. He stands properly, pulls his arm free to slip it around her waist. “I can see why you like her.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” Lucius leans forward, presses a gentle kiss to her neck. “You do adore those who look like you.”

Narcissa grins, her eyes sparkling under the glow of the streetlights. “Are you calling me vain, darling?”

Lucius smiles, too. Faintly. “Vanity is hardly something to be ashamed of,” he tells her. “Especially not when it is well deserved.”

Narcissa’s grin softens at Lucius’ words, her body leaning into his embrace. It’s as much of a blessing as anything, and Narcissa is glad to have it.

It means nothing can stop her, now.

 

 

**_06._ **

It’s the Ponte Vecchio, and then the Palazzo Pitti, and then the Piazza del Duomo, and then finally— _finally_ —her bed. _Her bed_ —not the marital bed, but a room in their suite meant for this purpose exactly.

She pulls Lydia’s clothes off slowly, carefully. Each item is folded and placed atop an armchair, her own clothes resting with them. Her lips press to Lydia’s as every button is undone, every zipper pulled free.

Lydia places her hands atop Narcissa’s shoulders, holds her at bay for a moment. “Your husband—”

“Has been kind enough to give us the suite,” Narcissa interjects, her mouth turned up with amusement. She kisses Lydia again, her teeth catching on her bottom lip. “You need not worry.”

Her voice is breathy, filled with an underlying promise. Lydia does not need to told twice.

 

 

**_07._ **

“What’s your name?”

The bed, now. Lydia is splayed our below her, her back arched and head thrown back as Narcissa works her open, two of her fingers pressed inside her core. She scissors them slowly, enjoys every sigh, every pleased gasp or whine that falls from parted lips.

There is a sweet, stuttered breath; confusion flashing across Lydia’s face. “You know my name,” she says, and Narcissa hums ever so softly.

She hooks her fingers, her thumb moving to press against Lydia’s clit with a forceful pressure. Lydia let’s out a soft cry, her gasps loud in the otherwise quiet room; her body quivering as the pressure remains, as Narcissa’s free hand slides over her waist, up to her breasts.

Narcissa leans forward, presses her lips to the curve of Lydia’s ear. They graze the shell, her red lipstick tainting the skin. “Your real name,” she whispers, breath hot as it flickers down Lydia’s neck.

The answering shiver brings a smile to her face.

There is no response at first, only a tell-tale stilling of Lydia’s body. Narcissa does not let her stop, though—she twists her fingers again, makes Lydia arch up to her touch, the sound of her slickness loud and erotic. Twice more, and the body beneath her starts to shake with pleasure, an admission of _Bedelia_ audible in the midst of orgasm.

“Bedelia,” Narcissa repeats, her voice quiet as she tests the name on her tongue. She rather likes the feel of it.

Bedelia looks almost worried, but all Narcissa does is slip her hand free and push her back against the mattress. A little manoeuvring, and then she’s right there above her, a knee on either side of Bedelia’s face, her wet cunt only inches from her mouth.

“This is much better, don’t you think?”

 

 

**_08._ **

They wake with the sun, the light streaming through parted curtains. It illuminates the whole room, casts them both in an early morning glow.

Convincing Bedelia to stay had been difficult, but the sight of her now, naked and beautiful, makes it well worthwhile.

Bedelia is already awake, her gaze fixed on Narcissa, a thoughtful expression colouring her features. There is a hand curled around Narcissa’s hip, the touch light and joined by the press of a leg between hers. She sighs quietly, leans into it.

“Do you always think so much?” she murmurs, her voice low and traced with hints of sleep. The smile Bedelia gives her is humourless.

“When it cannot be avoided,” she says.

Narcissa looks down at her, her hand reaching to tuck a wisp of blonde hair behind an ear. Her touch is delicate, featherlight. “What are you trying to run from?” she asks, because she knows there must be something. There has to be.

Another humourless smile, though this one looks sadder than the last. “The cruelty of man,” Bedelia tells her, and leaves it at that.

Narcissa doesn’t need to hear more. The cruelty of man is one thing she knows all too well.

 

 

**_09._ **

Bedelia leaves before Lucius returns, and Narcissa watches her go.

She does not kid herself, does not delude herself with thoughts of affection, of more time spent together. These things—her affairs—they never last for long. She has no doubt that this one won’t, either.

The thought is not a sad one. After all, the memory will remain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and/or kudos are very much appreciated.


End file.
